


Bell Curve

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Developing Relationship, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, talky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik doesn't have to be a doctor, nor a scientist, to see that working with Cerebro takes the stuffing out of Charles. It's little wonder that Charles has begun self-medicating. (Or: Erik lends an ear while Charles smokes a bowl and waxes philosophical.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bell Curve

Erik doesn't have to be a doctor, nor a scientist, to see that working with Cerebro takes the stuffing out of Charles. He just has to be observant of normal human physiological reactions -- the way Charles strokes his temples after a long session beneath the helmet, or the lines wrought of wonder while he's using the thing that fall into worry when he's done. The way he excuses himself early from the commissary, eking fatigue just as he claims a lack of appetite.

Well, Erik sees all that.

But in the short time he's known Charles, he's also catalogued what presumably counts for normal behavior in the other man. Charles' gestures have shifted, for one: an encouraging press to Erik's shoulder becomes a there and gone-again brush down his arm, as though Charles lacks the energy to sustain it. Even Charles' too-easy smile has grown a little more softened and slow.

And in the short time he's been fucking Charles-- Well. Charles gives away everything he's able. He's as pliable as gold. He maneuvers beneath each ministration.

But something tells Erik that in another place, Charles would work _him_ just as easily.

At first, Erik didn't notice this. He was caught up in his own desire, the base pleasures he'd for so long refused himself, and which now suited him well enough. So long as it remained between them; so long as he'd allow it to go on. And too, with Charles, Erik didn't have much room for comparison.

They started this thing a few days after Charles -- _I could, but I won't_ \-- urged Erik to remain at the facility. It's dangerous. Erik sees the fault in relying too heavily on Charles, but where else would he have access to such records as the CIA possessed? Where before he'd struggled for months, traveled thousands of miles, for a name, a date, _anything_ , here everything's wrapped up in neat folios like it means nothing to know such things.

It's never been so _simple_.

Erik suspects there will be a payoff. Eventually, there must, just as there is with Charles, who with every moment on that blasted platform grows more weary, and less focused when he's doing anything else.

Erik's learned to catch Charles in the morning if they're to have sex that day.

But still, when Charles leaves his dinner all but untouched on his tray, Erik waits a few minutes before following him down the corridor.

"Come in, Erik," Charles' voice filters from behind his closed door. He sensed Erik was there even before Erik moved to knock, and took no pains to hide it. For once, Erik decides to see this as a welcome lack of pretense rather than an invasion of privacy.

The room is sparsely furnished, and the bed frame, bureau, and desk are all made of the same cheap steel, impersonal even in the presence of Charles' effects: a stack of books and another of files, his clothes, the things from his pockets.

Erik is used to such anonymous surroundings. He's accustomed to remaining inconspicuous.

But here, Charles seems suddenly more himself -- not at ease, but wider, as though his own personality has expanded from his body of its own volition, as if there's simply more _of_ him.

It's only after Erik's inside that he notices a faint, earthen reek of smoke, like the damp parts of a woodland floor, unmistakably that of marijuana.

And Erik realizes: Charles' powers were leaking slightly round his edges.

"It isn't habitual," Charles says, following Erik's gaze to where Charles' pipe sits on the desk, still faintly glowing, atop a neat wooden box. "Of course there were times at university-- Well. That's simply how things go. But lately I find it helps me relax."

"You're aware of the risk?" Erik asks. He lets Charles take the chair, sitting instead on the still-made bed.

Charles' mouth curls, just slightly, round the corners. "You mean the G-Men with whom I've chosen to surround myself," he states. "Yes, well. It just so happens I have means of ensuring they take a blind eye to certain goings-on."

With practiced ease, he takes out a match, strikes it, then holds it above the chamber long enough to get it lit again. He takes in a lungful; Erik notes the contented way Charles' eyes close then, and how his brow remains perfectly smooth.

"All right?" Charles asks, a few moments later, smoke slipping from his lips. "Would you--"

"No," says Erik. "Thank you."

"You're not a man of habit? Or do you simply lack the bad ones?"

"I have them. But I prefer to remain in control."

Charles nods. "Of course. I don't blame you. You know, I've a wireless in the closet. Do you like music, Erik?"

"Don't you know?" Erik asks. But he's smiling. What Charles knows about him -- whether it is in fact everything, as Charles claimed -- has not reached the point of being a welcome topic between them, and yet when he's feeling generous, Erik allows Charles to retain a sense of mystery.

And of course Erik likes music. He scarcely knew a man who didn't.

He retrieves the wireless, setting it on the bureau top, and is prepared to scan through the stations. But he's pleased to hear the low moan of a trumpet when he switches it on -- a solemn thing, to be sure, but he isn't in the mood for anything grander.

Erik takes the cigarette case from his pocket, gets one lit, and then: "Not bad."

"No," Charles agrees. He sets his pipe back on the desk, then settles deeper into his chair, steepling his fingers before him. "The signal here is quite ghastly. But then, there's a lot of competition for the airwaves. Do you know, Cerebro alone runs on fifteen separate frequencies?"

Erik didn't know, and doesn't particularly care. "Is it the technological marvel you'd hoped?"

"Yes. Certainly, it's the last thing I ever expected when I came here. But Hank developed it with just the _idea_ of a telepath in mind. And the CIA let him build it. It seems there's no boundaries for these people -- the _possibility_ of letting a mutant use his ability to the highest extent is enough for them to follow a drawing through to reality."

"I suppose that if one throws enough money at a problem, it's bound to be solved."

Charles sniffs. "That's just arrogance speaking."

"Is it?" Erik meets Charles' eye. There are so many things he doesn't know about the other man, but he can deduce enough -- that Charles comes from privilege, that he's well-educated. That he's never taken a male lover before, though he wanted to--

This Charles told Erik himself, the second time they were together. It was in Erik's room, which is no different than Charles', save for the fact that it has a window, and that it contains nothing of Erik save Erik himself.

That Charles could be so open, so early: Erik is still at a loss to understand. He would never give name to something if it meant inviting disadvantage.

Now Charles' expression softens. "I don't claim to grasp-- What you've lived through, Erik. But I want you to know that should you need to talk, I am here for you."

"I don't need a headshrinker."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Charles says. Then, there's that smile again, and Erik feels the air leave his chest in one juddering breath. "If anything, I'm more in the head-expansion business."

It's irrational. It's nothing Erik has ever known.

"What motivates you?" he demands, but lowly, between puffs.

Charles looks at the ceiling, but frowns a moment later, as though unable to find what he'd hoped for there. "You're expecting me to say 'world peace', and you're not far off," he says. "But the world isn't some fairy story, Erik. You know that better than most. But I do believe-- I _know_ that balance can be achieved. It _must_ , if we're to continue on."

"Humans, or mutants?"

" _We_. All of us. Humans and mutants alike. And I know it's a delicate thing. Every day, I track them. _Feel_ them. Beings like us, and moreover, those like nothing I've seen. There might well be infinite variations in mutation, each as beautiful as the last."

"Don't exhaust yourself," says Erik, "with what amounts to a fucking morality play."

A moment passes. Charles relights his pipe and smokes for a while, considering. His gaze is getting a little distant, and his eyes are glassy, but still they retain that strong glow of patience. Then: "You don't trust me," he says, simply.

And Erik doesn't. Of course he doesn't. But the feeling that rises in his guts, presses at his chest from beneath his ribs, when Charles says those words-- it is a slow shock for him to realize just how much he _wants_ to trust Charles.

It goes against everything Erik has become. And it's an idiot's path; one he cannot walk.

Instead, Erik says, "What will you do if these mutants don't wish to be found? Will you change their minds for them?"

Charles looks taken aback. "No, never," he says. "Never that, Erik. They will come with us of their own free will or not at all."

"Noble sentiments coming from a man who can-- can know--" the words are coming out with more vitriol than Erik really means, but he can't stop them "-- _everything_ about you in an instant."

"To know a thing isn't to _own_ it, Erik."

For a long moment, that's all there is. Erik stubs out his cigarette and then lights himself another, savoring that first burn, that initial pull. After a few deep drags, he feels at ease enough to look up again.

Charles is standing, arching his back in one long bend, like a cat might, with his arms stretched and linked at the hands. For a moment, the pale column of his throat is exposed. Erik would very much like to run his mouth down it and pick out the tastes of the day: aftershave beneath salt beneath smoke, each layer as distinctive as veins of mineral in the earth. But he has discipline; he'll save that.

"I think I've had enough," Charles says, as though catching Erik's thought, and toes off his shoes. He crosses to the other side of the bed and stretches out, folding his hands over his chest.

"Do you often sleep in your clothes?" Erik asks, idly.

"I'm not going to sleep," says Charles. "Do you, often?"

Erik does, it's true. The ability to be out of a room and away from danger always supersedes comfort.

Charles continues, "You don't need to worry about it, you know. We're safe here... all those G-Men out there haven't the slightest idea of the sorts of things we're really capable." His eyes drift shut. "Will you stay a while?"

"I like this tune," Erik concedes. "So yes, until the song ends."

Charles grins. "It's a long one. Everything off this record is long."

"Then I suppose I'll stay a while."

Erik unlaces his shoes, setting the pair carefully by the foot of the bed. Then he stretches out beside Charles. There's no way to avoid touching him -- the bed's far too narrow. But Erik doesn't mind the warmth that greets him at his shoulder and hip and thigh and foot.

Just once, Charles presses Erik's hand. It's yet warmer than the rest.


End file.
